I got a haircut on Wednesday, my first cut in nearly a year: 312 days, 23 hours, 30 minutes and 0 seconds to be exact. What brought me to my barber wasn’t the length of my hair, but the fact that my sideburns were beginning to curl and have a muttonchops meets Hassidic Jewish look to them. It wasn’t a good look.
And I hadn’t thought about my hairless year until Teri, my haircutter for three years now, asked me if it was emotional to get the cut. Until she had brought it up, I, in my great desire to put as much emotional distance between me and chemo/lymphoma, had totally forgotten that I hadn’t had a cut since just after chemo started last September (during chemo I could pretty much wash my hair off with soap and water and finish off with a buzzer the few chemo-resistant patches on my scalp).
So, yes, it was emotional to get the cut, but it was far, far better than the chemo-induced-no-haircut-baldness that I put up with for more than eight months.